


The Back Garden

by AeroplanesR0ck



Series: Hold and Release [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Trans Male Character, Trans Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 07:31:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12812664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeroplanesR0ck/pseuds/AeroplanesR0ck
Summary: Sherlock keeps all his best memories of John in the back garden of his Mind Palace, with the bees.Makes more sense of you read the rest of the series.





	The Back Garden

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick oneshot I dreamed up while writing the most recent chapter of Acupuncture. No one asked for this, but here you go anyway lol

Sherlock’s mental library of Ways John Watson is Perfect began the day of their first meeting, before Sherlock spoke his first words to the man. Before Sherlock even saw the man deductions had already begun to coalesce, as they always did. As soon as Sherlock realised Stamford has brought this man to him as a potential flatmate, he began a new, temporary subgroup for his deductions, splitting them into pros and cons of this man as a flatmate. As each deduction came to him he sorted it, rapidly forming two lists. 

Pros:  
Doctor (useful for avoiding clinics, though tremor means he can’t suture. Might also have reference books I can borrow.)  
Has nightmares (will possibly be less bothered by night-time violin)  
Doesn’t seem overly chatty  
Looking for more excitement in his life (less likely to be boring)

Cons:  
Has nightmares (might be downstairs at night and want to talk)  
 ~~Mildly suicidal (would be tedious if he kills himself in the flat)~~ - > seems hypocritical to discriminate because of that

Irrelevant:  
Ex-military, recently discharged (intriguing, but not exactly beneficial)

The pros seeming to outweigh the cons, Sherlock closed the mental file with a note to delete later, and set about convincing the man to move in with him. 

The next night, when Sherlock had the brilliant idea of bringing John along to the crime scene, he brought the file back up to add on to it, just to amuse himself, making up a list of how useful he could get John to be. 

Then John shot a man for Sherlock, and suddenly the list became entirely irrelevant. John was, clearly, extremely useful. Sherlock saved the file anyway, after updating it to change ‘Ex-military’ from ‘Irrelevant’ to ‘Pro’. 

A few months later, the list was less of a list and more of a collection, and Sherlock decided it was high time he moved it into his Mind Palace proper. When Sherlock compared his mind to a computer, that was the front end of things he was talking about. His mental processes, the way he sorted and stored and deleted his deductions. His Mind Palace, though, that was actually a palace. Or, well, a very large house, anyway. He’d based it on Grandmamma’s family home in France, as per the recommendations- it was a sufficiently large place that he was familiar with, but didn’t often visit. This was where he kept what he wanted to keep, all the things he was unlikely to ever delete. 

In the back garden of Sherlock’s Mind Palace was a set of beehives, where Sherlock kept all his knowledge about bees, stored neatly away in little perfectly hexagonal honeycombs. It was one of Sherlock’s favourite spots, a place he retreated to when everything going on outside of his head got too much to stand. The hum of the bees was soothing, the everlasting summer sun warm and bright, the flowers delicate and fragrant. Being around John was somehow strongly reminiscent of this imaginary place. It only made sense to put him there. 

Sherlock put his ‘John’ collection into the bees. They floated about, buzzing in the tones of the low hum John made in the back of the throat when he was thinking. Now when Sherlock went to lie down in the back garden, John was there too, memories of him triggered each time a bee landed on his cheek or nose like a fluttering kiss. Not that John had ever kissed him. Even so, it was a nice thing to imagine. 

After Sherlock jumped, when he was travelling around the world taking down Moriarty’s network, he spent as much time as he could spare in the back garden. It wasn’t as often as he liked, and it was frequently at his lowest, when he most needed it, that he could not afford to escape into his Mind Palace for fear that he’d be caught off guard. 

Then, once, he gave in. Weak from exhaustion, he took a chance. He closed his eyes and went to visit his bees. When he finally registered the footsteps in his hotel room, it was too late. 

It is rather boring, being tortured. There isn’t much to do, one way or another. Sherlock did his best to ignore the pain. He went to the back garden, and let the bees swarm around him. Then he felt pain lash across his back, and before his eyes a gash was rent in the sky, red and oozing. Sherlock opened his eyes with a gasp. He didn’t go back there again until Mycroft rescued him.

Sherlock went back to London. John forgave him, eventually. His wounds healed, and along with them, the gash in the sky closed up until it was once again a pure, cloudless blue. Still, Sherlock’s back garden was not back to normal. Things were different now, with John. John didn’t live in Baker Street, for one. He had a fiancée, for another. John himself was different, too. There was a guarded look in his eyes when he looked at Sherlock, a lingering sadness that Sherlock could not erase. Now, when Sherlock went to the back garden, the bees stung him. They never had before. Sherlock went anyway. It was a small price to pay, one he deserved, even, and Sherlock refused to give up his memories of John. 

Wedding preparation was hectic, but after, there was nothing left to do but hide in memories that stung like they were wasps rather than bees. Sherlock spent hours in the garden, and when he opened his eyes, it was almost a surprise to see his skin pale and smooth rather than itchy and swollen. 

Then a whole lot of things happened at once. John found Sherlock in a drug den, Sherlock got shot by Mary. Magnussen. 

Sherlock had learned his lesson, in Serbia. He never dared to try going into his back garden while Magnussen was raping him, not wanting to risk finding out how it might soil his haven. He tried to go there after, though. The result was always the same. Sherlock found himself standing naked in the garden, come dripping down his thighs. The bees would not come near him, not even to sting him. 

Then, again, a whole lot of things happened at once. John shot Magnussen. Magnussen shot Mycroft. John found out about Sherlock’s feelings for him, and apparently felt the same. Mary divorced John. The baby was not John’s. 

Things were far from perfect. Even so, he had John, now. Being with him, sleeping next to him and feeling his kisses on his nose and cheek, was better than he’d imagined. It was better than being in the back garden. He still went, now and again, mostly to add to his collection, which was growing more rapidly than ever. His garden filled with clouds of busy bees, and not one of them stung him.


End file.
